18 Explosive Eighteen (4 page)

He closed his front door and stepped off the porch. “Don’t need you. I got a car now.” I ran after him and latched on to the back of his Tshirt. “Help!” I yel ed. “Police!”

He shoved me away, crammed himself behind the wheel, and the car groaned under the weight. He rol ed the engine over and took off.

“That’s grand theft auto, mister!” I shouted after him. “You’re in big trouble!”

I watched Buggy disappear around a corner. I procrastinated a minute, then gave in and cal ed Ranger.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m at Rangeman.”

Rangeman was the security company he partial y owned. It was housed in a nondescript building in the center of Trenton, and it was fil ed with high-tech equipment and large, heavily muscled men in black Rangeman uniforms. Ranger kept a private apartment on the seventh floor.

“Some big dopey guy just stole my car,” I said to Ranger. “And he has my bag. And he’s FTA.”

“No problem. We have your car on the screen.” Ranger has this habit of instal ing tracking devices on my cars when I’m not looking. In the beginning, I found the invasion of privacy to be intolerable, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years, and there are times when it’s come in handy … like now.

“I’l send someone out to get your car,” Ranger said. “What do you want us to do with the big dopey guy?”

“How about if you cuff him, cram him into the backseat, and drive him to the bonds bus. I’l take it from there.”

“And you?”

“I’m good. Lula’s on her way to pick me up.”

“Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

Okay, so I fibbed to Ranger about Lula. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to face him. Especial y since he sounded a tiny bit exasperated. I looked down at my naked ring finger, grimaced, and cal ed Lula.

FOUR

“YOU GOT SOFT IN HAWAI ,” Lula said. “You lost your edge. That’s what happens when you go on vacation and do whatever the heck it is that you did.

Which, by the way, I don’t even care about no more.” Lula had picked me up at Buggy’s house, and we were on our way to the bonds office.

“I didn’t go soft in Hawaii,” I said. “I
never
had an edge.”

“That could be true about the edge, but you’ve been out after two felons now, and they both whupped your butt. So I thought maybe it was on account of being distracted by whatever it is you’re distracted by. Not that I care what it is. And notice what a good friend I am, even though you don’t care to confide in me and I disturbed my nap to rescue you.”

“I’m not distracted. You can attribute both whuppings to pure incompetence.”

“Wel , aren’t you little Miss Down-on-Yourself. I could fix that. You need a doughnut.”

“I need more than a doughnut.”

“What, like chicken? Fries? Maybe one of them giant two-pounder bacon burgers?”

“I wasn’t talking about food,” I said to Lula. “You can’t solve al your problems with food.”

“Since when?”

“I’m thinking about taking a self-defense class.

Maybe learn kickboxing.”

“I don’t need no self-defense class,” Lula said. “I rely on my animal instincts to beat the bejeezus out of an offending moron.”

That didn’t always work for me. I wasn’t al that great at beating the bejeezus out of people. My fight-or-flight instinct ran more toward flight.

“Now that I’m up from my nap, I’m in a mood to go after the big one,” Lula said. “I want to bag Joyce.

Where’s she living? Is she stil in that hotel-size colonial by Vinnie?”

“No. The bond agreement lists her address as Stil er Street in Hamilton Township.” So far as I know, Joyce is currently single.

Although that might be yesterday’s news. It’s hard to keep up with Joyce. She’s a serial divorcée, working her way up the matrimonial ladder, kicking used-up husbands to the curb while negotiating lucrative settlements. She left her last marriage with a net gain of an E-class Mercedes and half of a $1.5

mil ion house. Rumor has it he got the guinea pig.

Might as wel have a look at Joyce’s house, I thought. Make a fast run out to Hamilton Township, and by the time I got back, hopeful y, my car would be parked behind the bonds bus.

Twenty minutes later, we were rol ing down Stil er.

“This clump of houses is brand new,” Lula said. “I didn’t even know this was here. This was a cornfield last week.”

The clump of attached town houses was cal ed Mercado Mews, and it looked not only brand new but expensive. Joyce lived in an end unit with a two-car garage. Everything looked fresh and spiffy. No activity anywhere. No cars parked on the street. No traffic. No one tending the azalea bushes. No one walking a dog or pushing a strol er.

“Looks to me like lots of these houses aren’t sold yet,” Lula said. “They look empty. ’Course, Joyce’s house looks empty, too.”

According to the file notes, Connie had been cal ing every day, twice a day, since Joyce went missing. She’d cal ed the cel number and the home phone, and no one ever picked up.

Lula pul ed to the curb and we went to the door and rang the bel . No answer. She waded into the flowerbed and looked into the front window.

“There’s furniture in here, but no Joyce that I can see,” Lula said. “Everything looks nice and neat. No dead bodies on the floor.”

“Let’s snoop around back.”

We skirted the house and discovered the backyard was sealed off with a seven-foot-high wooden privacy fence. I tried the fence door.

Locked.

“You’re gonna have to kick it in,” Lula said. “I’d do it, but I’m wearin’ my Via Spigas.”

We’ve done this dril many, many times. Lula was always wearing the wrong shoes, and I was inept.

“Go ahead,” Lula said. “Kick it.”

I gave a halfhearted kick.

“That’s a sissy kick,” Lula said. “Put something behind it.”

I kicked it harder.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “You don’t know much about kickin’ in doors.”

No kidding. We went through this routine at least once a week, and it was getting old. Maybe I didn’t need kickboxing lessons. Maybe I needed a new job.

“One of us is gonna have to al ey-oop over the fence,” Lula said.

I looked up at the fence. Seven feet. Neither of us was exactly Spider-Man.

“Who’s going to al ey, and who’s going to oop?” I asked her.

“I’d do the lifting, but I just got a manicure. And I notice you don’t have a manicure at al . Only thing noticeable about your hands is the missing tan on your ring finger that I don’t care about.”

“Okay, great. I’l do the lifting, but you’re going to have to ditch the Via Spigas. I don’t want to get gored by a stiletto.”

Lula took her shoes off and threw them over the top of the fence into Joyce’s yard. “Okay, I’m ready.

Give me a boost.”

I tried boosting, but I couldn’t get her off the ground.

“You’re going to have to climb onto my shoulders,” I said.

Lula put her right foot on my thigh, hoisted herself up, and wrangled her left leg over my shoulder. Her spandex skirt was up to her waist, and her tiger-striped thong was lost in the deep, dark recesses of her voluptuousness.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“What
uh-oh
? I don’t like to hear
uh-oh
.”

“I’m stuck. You gotta get a hand under my ass and shove.”

“Not gonna happen.”

She wrapped her arms around my head to keep from slipping, and we went over backward.
WUMP
.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“Hard to tel with you laying on me. I might need a moment.”

We both got up and reassessed the situation.

“My Via Spigas are on the wrong side of the fence,” Lula said, tugging at her skirt. “No way am I losing them Via Spigas.” She hauled her Glock out of her purse and dril ed five rounds into the gate lock.

“Holy cow!” I said. “You can’t do that. That’s
loud
.

Everybody’s probably cal ing the police.”

“There’s no everybody,” Lula said. “This here’s a ghost town.” She tried the gate, but it was stil locked. “Hunh,” she said. “Maybe we could dig under the fence.”

“Do you have a shovel?”

“No.”

“Then you’re going to have to decide between your manicure and your shoes,” I told her.

“Over you go,” Lula said.

She got me to the top of the fence, where I hung for a moment, swung one leg and then the other, and managed to fal without fracturing anything. I opened the gate, let Lula in, and we looked in the back windows. Same deal. No Joyce in sight. Back door was locked.

“I could get us in,” Lula said. “I could have a accident with one of these back windows.”

“No! No broken windows. And no more shooting at doors. I can get Ranger to sneak me in.”

“I bet,” Lula said. “Not that it’s any of my business or that I care about what’s going on with you and Mr.

Mysterious. ’Course, if you were dying to tel me, I suppose I’d have to listen.”

“The only thing I’m dying to do is get out of here.” We unlocked the gate from the inside, returned to Lula’s Firebird, and she drove me back to the bonds office.

“Looks to me like Ranger got your car washed,” Lula said, eyeing the RAV4 parked behind the bus. “I can’t ever remember seeing it that clean. Ranger’s like a ful -service dude. He rescues your car from being stolen, and he returns it detailed. I’m guessing you must have made him real happy in Hawaii. Not that I care. I’m just taking a winger here.” It was more like I made him happy, and then I didn’t make him happy, and then I made him happy.

And then the shit hit the fan.

“He’s just a clean kind of guy,” I said to Lula.

“Yeah, I could see that.”

Lula took off, and I went to my car. The driver’s side door had been left unlocked. The key was tucked under the mat. There was no Big Buggy in the backseat.

I punched Ranger’s number into my cel phone.

“Thanks,” I said. “Did you get my car detailed?”

“There was a problem with blood on your right front quarter panel, so Hal ran it through the car wash.”

“Omigod.”

“Nothing serious. Bugkowski slipped resisting arrest and smashed his face into your car.”

“Where is he now?”

“Bugkowski was screaming like a little girl and drawing a crowd, and Hal didn’t have the paperwork to justify a capture, so he had to let him go.”

“Did Hal get my messenger bag?”

“Yes. He brought it back here to Rangeman. He didn’t want to leave it in an unlocked car.”

“Maybe you could mail it to me?” I asked.

I was real y, real y not ready to see him.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Ranger said.

So true. I hung up and headed for home. I stopped at the supermarket and had my cart half fil ed with groceries when I realized I had no money, no credit cards, no ID. It was al in my messenger bag … with Ranger. Damn. I returned the groceries and cal ed Morel i from my car.

“About tonight,” I said. “Is it going to involve dinner?”

“Not unless you want to eat at midnight.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not that smart,” Morel i said.

I sat for a long moment after Morel i hung up, reviewing my current choices. I could drive to Rangeman and retrieve my bag from Ranger. I could go home and share a cracker with Rex. I could mooch dinner from my mom.

Twenty minutes later, I was at my parents’ house and Grandma was hustling to set a plate at the table for me. My mom had been making minestrone this morning, and that meant there’d also be antipasto, bread from the bakery, and rice pudding with Italian cookies.

“The table is set for four,” I said to Grandma.

“Who’s coming to dinner?”

“This real interesting lady I met last week. I joined one of them bowling leagues, and she’s on my team.

You might want to talk to her. She’s some kind of relationship counselor.”

“I didn’t know you could bowl.”

“Turns out it’s easy. You just gotta throw the bal down

the al ey. They gave me this shirt and everything. We’re the LWB. That stands for Ladies with Bal s.”

My father was watching television in the living room. He rattled his newspaper and muttered something about women ruining bowling. He was watching national news and a bul etin came on showing a picture of a man found dead at LAX. He’d been hit with a blunt instrument, had his throat slashed, and he’d been stuffed into a trash can.

Ugh. As if this wasn’t horrific enough, I was pretty sure it was the guy sitting next to me for the first leg of the Hawaii flight home. I’d spoken to him briefly in the beginning but slept for the rest of the trip. I’d been surprised to find his seat empty when we reboarded. My impression had been that he’d planned to fly into Newark. I guess this explained his absence.

The doorbel rang. Grandma rushed to get it and ushered a brown-haired, pleasantly plump, smiling, forty-something woman wearing an LWB bowling shirt into the living room.

“This is Annie Hart,” she said. “She’s the best bowler we got. She’s our ringer.”